


Heartbreaker (Never Play Truth or Dare with Tony Stark)

by italics_of_uncertainty



Category: Avengers (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs in a Car, Car Sex, Casual Sex, Developing Friendships, Drinking Games, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fast Cars, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Gay Sex, Gift Giving, Happy Hookers, Happy Sex, Los Angeles, M/M, No Angst, No Romance, No Strings Attached, Oral Sex, POV Clint Barton, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Prostitution, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sex in a Car, Sweet/Hot, Tony Being Tony, Truth or Dare, Weird Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 17:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10417581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/italics_of_uncertainty/pseuds/italics_of_uncertainty
Summary: Clint has never exactly advertised the fact that he used to be a prostitute, but he's hardly ashamed of his past. He used to like it, really.Once the secret is out, well. Tony makes it very clear that he has money to burn, and is always up for easy, no-strings sex.Fast cars, casual fucking. Tony being Tony.Basically PWP, with a little unexpected sweetness towards the end.





	

Somehow — and nobody is quite sure how at this point — they’ve ended up playing a round of Truth or Dare now and again. The rules are pretty standard, except that whenever someone chooses Truth, they all have to answer the same question. Tony said it seemed more fair that way, and for some reason, they all agreed. Clint thinks they should’ve learned by now to never agree with Tony, even when he’s saying something entirely reasonable, like how the weather is nice, or the sky is blue, but they all agreed, and there’s no going back on it now. Things tend to get much more interesting around Avengers Tower about three or four drinks in no matter what they’re doing, and this is no exception. 

The question Bruce asked was, ‘Tell us something you should probably be ashamed of, but aren’t.’ 

Answers have run the gauntlet; Steve wears ladies underwear about half the time, Tony bought that gigantic bunny mostly for himself, and for his part, Clint decides he might as well win this round. He drinks the last of his beer, and says, “I used to be a hooker.” 

Tony half-chokes on his scotch, and Bruce gives them both a look. 

Clint just shrugs, “I suppose the politically correct term now is ‘sex worker’ but let’s be honest; I was a hooker. It was an easy way to make a good enough living.”

Tony has recovered his wits enough that he’s grinning, and he leans in, “So… Gay for pay?”

Clint laughs, “Yeah, and sometimes not…” He looks at his friends, “What?” 

Natasha shrugs, a study of inscrutability as always. Bruce’s face is purposefully blank. Steve seems to be considering something, though he isn’t particularly focused on him, and Clint figures that’s probably for the best. Thor doesn’t look shocked at all, he seems almost pleased, and Clint isn’t sure whether that’s reassuring, or a very bad sign indeed.

“Come on, then,” Tony says, “What’s your price?”

“Oh.” Clint stifles a smirk and shakes his head, “Well, I wasn’t expensive… But if you call me cheap I’ll shoot you out of the sky next time you go for a joyride.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tony raises his hands in a mock truce, “I know a bargain when I see it.”

Clint gives him a look, but he’s amused, and he’s glad they’ve all taken it in stride, because he would be seriously regretting admitting it, otherwise. He’s never regretted doing it, but admitting to it, well, that’s been another story.

“Seriously, though,” Tony says, “I’ve got to know.”

Clint wants another beer, he hasn’t named a number in years, and he knows once Tony has something like this in his teeth, he just doesn’t let up, so as he gets up and heads to the kitchen, he just says the first thing that comes to mind, “Friends and family discount. First one’s free.”

“Only the first?” Natasha laughs, calling, “Get me another scotch while you’re up.” She raises her empty glass, a look of mock-consternation on her face.

***

Life goes on as usual. After a week or two, Clint figures everyone has already forgotten, and really, considering Thor admitted that he sleeps with Mjolnir on his pillow, he’s feeling pretty alright about the whole thing. It wasn’t exactly a state secret anyway — that and many other indiscretions have been in his file for the entire length of his tenure with SHIELD. Things like a history of illegal activity are considered ‘liabilities’ and so most of the senior staff already knew. News does travel despite the Top Secret nature of most SHIELD gossip; Natasha didn’t look surprised, and he’s not exactly surprised about that, either.

So when Tony pages him direct on the comm line and asks him to come up to the penthouse when he gets back that evening, Clint isn’t expecting mood music, and he definitely isn’t expecting champagne. 

He looks around, “Date later?”

Tony hands him a glass, saying, “Date just got here.”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Clint laughs, but then he sees the look on Tony’s face, “…you’re not kidding, are you?”

“You did say the first one was free.” Tony shrugs, “I’m game if you are.”

“We both know guys like you don’t pay for sex,” Clint says, giving him a scrutinizing look, “They pay for their partner to leave afterwards.”

“No strings attached.” Tony raises his glass and takes a sip, “Might as well be the Stark family motto.”

“Alright, fine,” Clint says with a shrug, “But not tonight. Tomorrow. Six o’clock. If you’re still interested, call me.” He carries his glass with him as he walks back toward the elevator, and raises it as the doors close, “Thanks for the drink.” It’s good champagne, and by the time he’s back to his rooms, he’s finished it. He almost regrets not staying, if only long enough to finish the bottle.

He spends the rest of the evening absently watching TV, occasionally wondering exactly what he’s gotten himself into, but he’s much less concerned about it than he knows he probably should be. He gives it an even split as to whether Tony will follow through; more often than not Stark is all swagger, and he backs down pretty quick when someone actually calls his bluff. 

A few episodes into the Latest-Big-Thing he’s missed while saving the world, Clint realizes he hasn’t been paying attention at all, and has no idea what’s going on. It’s not exactly high concept, but he can’t even tell who’s who. He sighs and flips off the TV, calls it an early night.

***

It’s around half past five the next afternoon, and Tony still hasn’t called, but Clint steps into the shower anyway, washing off the sweat and dust from a rather dull day spent watching the rooftops of Manhattan. He normally likes to slum around in his sweats and shower just before bed, but the complete lack of snark from Tony today has him laying good odds that he’s going to call. 

Clint is just toweling off when his cellphone rings. “Give me ten minutes,” he says, “I’ve got to get dressed.” 

“Shame, seeing as I’m just going to take your clothes off when you get here.”

“Shut up, Stark.” Clint hangs up before Tony can say anything else, and just leans against his bathroom counter, looking at himself in the mirror. After a long pause, he takes a deep breath, “Fuck it,” he runs his fingers through his hair and drops his towel on the tile, “Why the fuck not?”

He rummages through his nightstand looking for the lube, and falls back, sprawling across his bed and getting comfortable before he slicks his fingers down, starts to work himself open. Judging by the champagne, Tony doesn’t seem to be the sort who wants it fast and easy, but this is an old habit, bordering on ritual, and in its own way it’s soothing; letting his mind go blank, feeling the slow stretch of his fingers, the cool slick of the lube, nothing but the sound of his own breathing. By the time he’s started to relax, he’s half-hard. 

It was never that hard of a gig; most of the time he enjoyed it, more or less, and when he didn’t, well, he enjoyed the money enough to make up for it. Now, even though there’s no money, it really doesn’t feel like an imposition. Tony’s attractive enough, and Clint hasn’t gotten laid in a while. Surprisingly enough, being a superhero makes picking up a date a little difficult. He never would’ve believed it before he went out a few weeks after Loki leveled Manhattan and they all made the papers, but instead of actually talking to him, men and women both just stared and whispered quietly — and the ones who actually had the nerve to talk to him, well, they were just fucking crazy.

He slips his fingers out, shuddering at the sensation, quickly washes his hands, and pulls on a soft teeshirt and a pair of comfortable jeans. He doesn’t bother with shorts, he figures Tony’s the sort who’ll appreciate that. 

He arrives just a few minutes past six, and true to form, Tony has another bottle of champagne waiting. He’s opted for some sort of pop music this time, but it’s quiet enough that it’s more white noise than anything else. Silence tends to almost echo in the penthouse, with its polished concrete floors, and Clint isn’t sure whether Tony knows that unnerves him and has put on music to compensate, or if he’s just the sort of guy with a very set repertoire of tricks. 

Tony wanders out from around the bar carrying a plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries, and it takes everything Clint has not to laugh, “Are you always this…”

“Classy?” 

“I was going to say stereotypical,” Clint admits, reaching for a strawberry as Tony passes by, “But sure, why not, classy works too, for a really sleazy value of classy.”

Tony laughs. Clint takes a bite of his strawberry, the hard crunch of chocolate and the perfect sweetness of fruit, and he closes his eyes, making a soft sound of pleasure. He doesn’t even realize he’s done it until Tony reaches out and brushes a bit of stray chocolate from the corner of his mouth, and the unexpected touch startles him back to the present. Clint licks his lips, sucks a little bit of chocolate from his thumb, mostly because he feels a little sticky, but people tend to like that sort of thing, too. 

Tony watches him, somehow absently managing to pop the cork on the champagne, pouring a perfect glass without even looking, and holds it out, offering it to him. 

He sits, rather closer to Tony than he otherwise would, and takes the glass, raising it in some approximation of a toast. Tony has finished pouring his own glass and mirrors him. They both nod and Clint notices that Tony downs about half the glass in one go. It makes him feel a little better. 

He has another sip of his champagne and sets the glass aside, passingly wistful for the rest of the bottle that’s almost surely going to go to waste, and moves a little closer to Tony; that universal signal that the obligatory time for polite conversation has passed. 

Tony leans in close, dragging his fingers along Clint’s cheek, and pauses, “Do you kiss?”

He shouldn’t be surprised that Tony asked, but he is, for just a moment, and then he’s relieved. He actually hadn’t considered it, because until just now, until he realized that he wasn’t going to have to put on that show in order to not hurt anyone’s feelings, he hadn’t known how uncomfortable he was with the idea of going back to that place, mentally — but no. Tony gets it. The fact he’s even asked, he gets it.

They’ve both been in the game for long enough that they remember when kissing was something people paid extra for, when the so-called girlfriend experience wasn’t something that could be bought at any price without a long-term commitment, much less expected even from escorts listed at the back of the free weeklies. A few oohs and aahs is one thing, and Clint is more than happy to oblige so far as that goes, but the pretense of feelings, well, that was always a little more than Clint was willing to offer. He’s relieved, and actually pleased, for more reasons than he can properly articulate, that Tony’s just here for the sex. 

What he says, though, is simply, “Not normally, no.” 

Tony just nods, not put-out or surprised at all, and smiles, hand going straight for the button on Clint’s jeans. 

Clint pulls him closer and licks at his throat, fingers dragging at the neck of Tony’s teeshirt as he works his way lower. He’s almost sad that Tony isn’t wearing a button-down shirt; he’s pretty sure he still remembers how to undo buttons with his teeth, but he supposes it’s probably for the best. Nothing worse than trying a trick like that and failing spectacularly to ruin the mood. Or at least the pretense of mood. It’s almost the same thing.

Tony smells expensive, and it’s not the first time Clint has noticed that, but it’s the first time he’s ever had an excuse to really pay attention. There’s something woodsy at the start, a hint of some citrusy highlight, some deep, spicy note below it all, but the overall effect isn’t exotic or outdoorsy or even metro, it’s just lush. Tony smells like luxury. Like silk sheets and old books bound in leather, great echoing rooms and expansive green lawns that stretch off into the sunset. He smells like money, and not easy money, either; Tony smells like wealth, as if legacy could be refined down to scent alone, and Clint presses his cheek against Tony’s chest, breathing it in. It’s pretty fucking great.

It’s so easy, falling back into this role, the willing participant in a grand charade of lust. It’s something that’s become second nature, and after the first few minutes he doesn’t even need to think, everything fades away and becomes automatic, the arousal comes naturally along with the motions of desire, and the rest is just technique… Unfastening the buttons on Tony’s jeans, slipping his hand into Tony’s shorts, touching and teasing just enough before sliding down between Tony’s legs. Tony groans as Clint takes him in his mouth, and Clint feels that telltale arch of the spine as Tony shifts, trying to slide just a little deeper. He looks up as he licks at Tony’s cock, that practiced smolder in his eyes, waits until Tony is the one to look away, shaking his head. “Fuck, Barton… Fuck.” 

Clint hums, pleased with himself, and reaches to pull Tony’s hand down to rest at the nape of his neck. Tony threads his fingers into Clint’s hair, pulling him closer, and Clint exhales, relaxing into it, taking the tip of Tony’s cock into the back of his throat. Tony’s grasp tightens, and Clint moans, breathing slow, swallowing and burying his nose in Tony’s pubic hair. 

Tony makes a sound that’s halfway between a whimper and a growl, closing his eyes, shifting his hips, aching for more but still too polite to just take what he wants. Clint admires that, actually, and wonders whether Tony is always like this, or if it’s just because they know one another, but either way, he slides his hand up and takes a firm grip on Tony’s hip, digging his fingers into his ass as he pulls him closer, and that’s all it takes. Tony drags him down, arching hard against his mouth, shuddering as Clint just relaxes into it, swallowing the length of him. Clint stays there, letting Tony revel in it for the space of a breath, before he draws back just enough for Tony to push in again, and it’s marvelous how tense Tony is, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. 

He had almost forgotten how much he enjoyed that feeling of power, of teasing and taunting and slowly dragging someone over the edge. He moans against Tony’s cock, opening his mouth further, a satisfied warmth washing over him as Tony’s hips jerk, as he takes hold of Clint’s shoulder, arching up against his mouth, almost whining with want. He can feel how much effort Tony puts into taking it slow, how tenuous a grasp he has on himself, and with Clint moaning at every stroke, gazing up at him, encouraging him with smoldering looks, he doesn’t last long. Clint swallows, closing his eyes, pulling back slowly, nuzzling at Tony’s cock, licking the last drop from the tip. Tony whimpers.

Clint stretches, sitting up and working a slight kink out of his neck before he reaches for the last of his champagne. The glass has gone warm, but it’s still crisp and smooth on the tongue, and he pours a bit more for himself, smiling at the fizz against his lips, shifting and pointedly ignoring his own hard cock. 

Tony has started to recover, and he groans theatrically, “I was really hoping to keep you here all night, you know.”

Clint shrugs, trying not to smirk, “I guess I’m just that amazing. No shame in that.” Tony huffs, looking entirely too put out for a man in his position. “Anyway,” Clint says, patting Tony’s leg, “Some of us actually work for a living.” 

Tony snorts and shifts so he can tuck himself away and zip his jeans, “Normally I’d tip you…”

“Easy there,” Clint sets his glass down and stands, stretching again. His neck is a bit sore, “No need to get all sentimental.” 

Tony actually laughs, running his hand through his hair before he reaches for his glass, “Why is this awkward, when that wasn’t?”

“Probably because you have to talk to me again tomorrow.” 

Clint can sympathize, it’s always a lot easier to keep things compartmentalized. It’s only a few steps to the elevator, but it feels like it takes forever to get there, and he taps the call-button, immediately breathing a quiet sigh of relief as the doors open. 

“Don’t sweat it, though,” he tries to sound as casual as he should feel, and looks back over his shoulder, calling, “Not like I’m going to give you any less shit just because I’ve sucked your cock.” 

“Oh, great,” Tony says, rolling his eyes, “Thanks.”

Clint steps into the elevator, and gives him a little wink just as the doors close, saying, “Just part of the service.”

Once the doors close, Clint sighs and leans against the elevator doors, pressing his forehead against cool steel, closing his eyes and just gathering himself together until he feels the carriage come to a gentle stop. He takes a deep breath, trying to will away the flush in his cheeks for the duration of the walk to his bedroom, but thankfully no one is around to see whether or not he succeeds. 

The door has barely closed behind him before he strips off his shirt and kicks off his jeans, shuddering at the drag of rough fabric against his hard cock. Normally by now he would be counting the envelope, washing away sweat and slick and any lingering regret, but all he wants is to fuck, to be fucked. He aches, and the slick between his legs is just a reminder of exactly what he would rather not admit he wants. He grits his teeth and shakes his head, not thinking about that, and heads for the shower. 

The water is warm, and as he starts to relax, it’s just too easy to reach down and stroke himself, teasing at that need. He leans against the cool tile, sighing as he arches against his own fingers, eyes closing as he finds that perfect spot. There’s nothing but the sound of his breathing, the warmth of the water, and each long, slow stroke, and he drags it out until he can barely stand it, whining and biting his lip as he finally grasps his cock, hips jerking as he squeezes tight, coming so hard his toes curl. 

It’s a long time before he opens his eyes again, tension having melted away long before, replaced with a leaden sort of nervous exhaustion. He towels off just enough that he isn’t dripping, and crawls into bed only to realize he’s forgotten to turn off the lights, and groans, pulling the sheets over his head. It’s just not worth getting out of bed again. FRIDAY doesn’t say anything, just dims the lights, and he sighs, remembering he lives in the not-quite-so-terrifying version of 2001.

***

It’s a few days later when Tony catches him in the kitchen.

“So,” he says, and he has that look that Clint has learned means trouble, “How much for the second time?”

Natasha doesn’t quite choke on her yogurt, but it’s a near thing. 

Clint shoots Tony a look, only slightly annoyed, but really this is the sort of thing he’s come to expect from him, “A million bucks,” He pauses for a second, thinking, “And a Ferrari.” 

Tony laughs and finishes off his energy drink, “Fair enough.” He drops the can in the recycling and goes off to do whatever it is he does all day.

Clint looks at Natasha and shakes his head, incredulous. 

Natasha shrugs, “I would’ve asked for my own private island,” and goes back to her breakfast.

Clint wouldn’t mind an island. He wouldn’t mind winning the lottery and never having anyone try to kill him again, either. If wishes were horses. He grabs an orange and goes to work.

***

Every so often, Clint spends a few weeks out in Los Angeles, and thanks to Tony’s general unwillingness to show up for meetings, or answer his phone, he ends up dropping by Tony’s place late one night, hoping to catch him.

As he walks in, all he hears is, “Think fast!”

He thanks his lucky stars for his good reflexes, because Tony has just chucked a keychain at his head, and it probably would’ve hurt if he hadn’t dodged in time. “What?” Clint looks at the single key in his hand, dangling from a shiny silver keychain in the shape of a rearing horse, “Is your valet on break?”

Tony laughs, “You’re not getting that million bucks, but I did buy you a Ferrari.”

Clint’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t say anything. Stark isn’t above elaborate practical jokes. He cocks an eyebrow and gives him the most skeptical look he can manage.

“It’s in the garage.”

When Clint doesn’t budge, Tony makes a show of being annoyed, shooing him towards the garage, “Well? Go see your new car, asshole.”

Clint rolls his eyes and glances down at the keychain, and now that he’s paying attention, it is the Ferrari logo. Fine, whatever, he’ll play along, even though he’s expecting to end up covered in shaving cream or set on fire or something, at this rate. 

Tony doesn’t stop grinning the entire time they’re walking down to the garage, and, yeah, the way he keeps going on about how he expects more than just a quickie for a luxury driving machine of this calibre, there is definitely a trick behind door number three. 

So, Clint is actually surprised that when he rounds the corner, all he sees is that long line of Tony’s gorgeous, enviable, utterly sexy cars, and down at the end, there’s a new one he doesn’t recognize. It’s black and sleek and as he gets closer he sees a very distinct arrow-pierced heart painted on the hood, almost demure, just behind the air scoop. 

He glances at Tony, refusing to to fall for it. There has to be a catch.

“What? Too much?”

The car unlocks itself as Clint gets closer, and, sure, alright, maybe Tony really has bought him a Ferrari. It’s too good to be true, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to enjoy it until the inevitable moment when reality catches up with him. He opens the door, slides into the driver’s seat, breathing in the smell of new leather, and yeah, this car is sex on wheels. A little part of him hopes it really is his.

“It’s a Berlinetta F12,” Tony says, sounding a little disappointed, “I couldn’t get them to sell me the 2017 Enzo on no notice. Manufacturing is booked solid, they said.” He rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed. “As if I give a fuck about that. Still, this one’s not bad, for floor stock.”

Clint slides his hands along the steering wheel, fingers tracing supple leather and neat stitching. The interior is mostly a cool, clean slate grey, but all the accents are a muted purple, and he doesn’t know much about Ferraris, but he’s pretty sure that’s not a stock option. Tony has clearly put some thought into this.

Tony has been rambling off specs that are mostly meaningless to him, but he does perk up when he hears “…zero to one-twenty in eight point five seconds, top speed of two-ten, which,” Tony makes an equivocating motion, “isn’t exactly Formula One, but…” he shrugs, “It’s faster than almost everything else on the road, and I think I can probably get it up to a solid two-thirty-five, two-forty, maybe, if you leave it here for about a week. Maybe better, really, I haven’t had a chance to get under the hood. They actually just delivered it today.” 

“Oh?” Clint makes a show of being offended, crosses his arms over his chest, smirking and huffing, “…and you didn’t buy me the fastest car on the road, why, again?”

Tony laughs, “You asked for a Ferrari, smartass.”

“What, Ferraris aren’t the fastest cars on the road?” 

“Nope, that’s a Bugatti Veyron. Tops out at about 268 or so, but they have a speed inhibitor on the production models,” he wrinkles his nose a bit, “and they’re nowhere near as sleek as the Berlinetta. They look more like Hot Wheels, really.”

Tony leans down, smirking as he sees Clint’s obvious pleasure, “So. Wanna take it out for a spin? Break it in a little… or a lot?” 

Clint laughs. “Alright, but you’re paying my insurance and my speeding tickets for the next six months.”

“Done and done.” Tony is around to the other side of the car and in the passenger seat in less time than it takes Clint to shut his door and find his seatbelt. 

Clint adjusts his mirrors, takes a deep breath, really, he flies a jet on a fairly regular basis, he doesn’t know why he’s feeling intimidated by a car. It probably has something to do with the fact that he doesn’t really have to worry about the jet, well, other than being yelled at by Fury, but the car, the car is his. Apparently. 

He’s already cringing at the idea of scratching the paint. 

Tony directs him down and out of the hills towards the beach, and then five minutes later, much to Clint’s dismay, has him turn right around and head back into the canyon on a different route. 

“I thought we were going up the coast?”

“Mulholland,” Tony says smugly, as if that means something to anyone who doesn’t live in LA.

It’s a long two-lane road that snakes through the canyon along a shallow ledge, and though it’s mostly void of streetlights, every now and again Clint catches a glimpse through the high fences lining the road, and every house he sees looks almost as impressive as Tony’s bachelor pad. There are a few he can see, glimmering off across the canyon, that look even nicer.

He ends up gazing off at that view and takes a curve a little sharp. Tony laughs, grabbing at the dash, “Look, just don’t kill us, alright?”

Clint grins and guns it. There’s not a soul out here at this hour. It’s glorious.

About twenty minutes later, they’ve reached the peak of the canyon, and he pulls off onto a dirt outlook, turning off the headlights. From here, it looks as if all of Los Angeles is spread out glittering before them. 

The Hollywood sign isn’t lit, but he can see the bright white flare of the Griffith Observatory on the hill, the neon and sodium-orange outline of downtown, the long red rush of endless traffic on the 101, and the ever bustling city, mostly yellow, shot through with clean white lines of LED streetlamps along the major thoroughfares. From up here, it almost looks like someplace he might want to live.

Tony glances out the window as if he hasn’t noticed the view at all, “…yeah, it’s pretty, isn’t it?” and Clint realizes he must’ve actually said that out loud. Tony unbuckles his seatbelt, opens the moonroof and slides back in his seat, looking far too pleased with himself, “On a clear night you can actually see the lights on Catalina from here.” 

Clint looks, but there’s fog rolling in from the ocean; already the lower half of the canyon is getting hazy, and he can’t make out much beyond the dim glow of houses here and there.

“So,” Tony says, kicking his boots off, “Like it?”

Clint laughs, “I guess,” he grips the steering wheel, slides his hands down along the smooth curve with the same fondness he usually reserves for tracing a lover’s collarbone, and before he can really think better of it, he’s unbuckled his seatbelt and leant over, one hand still resting on the wheel as he slides his free hand behind Tony’s neck and kisses him. It’s a messy, wet kiss, and Tony almost purrs. Clint licks at his mouth and whispers, “Yeah, I like it, you could say that.” 

Tony grins, still a little breathless, “It’s the logo on the hood, isn’t it?”

Clint laughs as he draws back, half-grimacing, because it’s absurd and yes, he loves that stupid heart and arrow, “It’s the worst!”

“I knocked that up myself, I’ll have you know,” Tony says, looking a little proud of himself. “Well, I designed it. FRIDAY painted it.” Tony shrugs, “That part is just grunt work.”

“You are such a snob,” Clint rolls his eyes.

“I have things to do, places to be. Always do. It’s a blessing and a curse.” He gives Clint a wicked look, “Right now though, I am almost exactly where I want to be.” 

Clint cocks an eyebrow, “Almost?”

Tony grins as he leans in close, whispering, “I’d rather be halfway down your throat.”

Clint smirks, leaning closer, sliding his hand down to unbutton Tony’s jeans, and maybe it’s that he hasn’t had a partner in a while, maybe it’s adrenaline and dopamine from driving this fucking car, but he’s not exactly feeling like sucking Tony’s cock again is going to be a burden. He licks his lips as he slips Tony out of his boxers, and his mouth floods with anticipation. Actually, now that he’s thinking about it, he’s pretty keen on the idea, and that’s all the thinking he’s planning on doing for the near future. 

He sets to with an enthusiasm he hasn’t felt in ages, not with a lover, not with a client, just not at all. It’s a sort of hunger, a need that feeds on Tony’s little moans and sighs and the way those slender fingers curl against the back of his neck. It’s marvelous, and he’s really getting into it when Tony squeezes his shoulder. 

“Wait, wait,” Tony gasps, and Clint pulls back, “I really want to fuck you.”

Clint licks his lips, wipes a bit of stray spit off his chin. He’s not all that keen on fucking without lube, but he’s not exactly going to stand on ceremony with a guy who’s just bought him a Ferrari. A Ferrari, for fuck’s sake. There’s not a whole lot he wouldn’t do, if Tony asked him right now. 

Clint toes off his shoes, kicks off his jeans and shorts the best he can, and he’s only half joking when he says, “We’re going to get arrested for indecent exposure, you know that, right?”

“Nah.” Tony rolls his eyes, “The cops who patrol up here are only looking for idiot kids buying coke with mommy’s pocket money. Easy collar, easy to drop the charges for community service, later.” He slides his jeans down to his ankles, spreads his legs a bit and settles in again, “Besides, we’re in a Ferrari so new it’s still got paper plates. No cop in his right mind would mess with us. Anybody who can afford a car like this can also afford a really good lawyer. They’re not going to mess with us for something stupid like indecent exposure.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

Tony shrugs, “There’s lube in the glovebox.”

Clint isn’t sure whether to be offended or amused, so he settles for pleased to not be going at it with nothing but spit, and pops open the glovebox, grabs the lube, and cozies up to Tony as best he can, pouring a generous dollop into his palm, grabbing Tony’s cock and giving him a good, hard squeeze. 

Tony groans, arching into his hand, and lets his head fall back, looking completely blissed out. Before Tony manages to gather his wits again, Clint straddles him and leans in close, whispering, “Do you want me to work myself open on your cock?”

Tony whimpers, biting his lip, looking like he’s the one who’s just been offered something too good to be true. This time, it’s Clint who smirks.

He settles against Tony, balancing his weight mostly on his shins. The angle is awkward, but he leans back and braces himself against the dashboard so Tony gets a nice show as he strokes himself with Tony’s cock, slicks himself down. Tony just watches as Clint shifts and lowers himself ever so slightly. Tony gasps and his hips buck as Clint takes just the tip of his cock, but Clint expected that, and it gives him just the excuse he needs to, well, not quite pin Tony in place, but he locks his knees against Tony’s hips. Tony whimpers; he knows he’s going anywhere anytime soon. 

Clint smirks as he pulls back, and he doesn’t actually need to go so slow, but Tony is already gasping open-mouthed, hand clenched into a fist by his hip, eyes shot black with want, and Clint is really kinda enjoying having him at his mercy like this. He decides not to be too cruel, and slowly strokes his fingertips along the length of Tony’s cock as he works himself open, just barely rocking his hips, giving Tony the smallest taste of it before he arches back again, taking a little more on each stroke. 

Tony makes this whining moan, and Clint notices he’s started to dig his nails into the seat. 

“Hey, easy on the leather.”

Tony groans and rolls his eyes, balling his hand into a fist again, “Fuck…” he gasps, “You are such…” Clint lets up for a moment and Tony finally takes a real breath, “You are such a fucking tease.”

Clint laughs, but it’s breathless and wanton, “I can be easy,” he shifts, slipping his arm behind Tony’s neck and bracing himself against the seat, “If you want.” 

Tony looks strung out, right at that edge between need and frustration, so Clint doesn’t wait for an answer, just puts his tongue between his teeth, breathing shallow as he takes Tony to the hilt in one long, slow stroke. Just before he closes his eyes, right as he bottoms out, he sees the most delicious look of lust and pleasure wash across Tony’s face, and he remembers exactly why he liked doing this sort of thing.

It’s easier, in a way, being here entirely for Tony’s pleasure. He enjoys it, sure, he wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t, but it’s almost less stressful, not caring whether he gets off or not. He’s just as hard as he would be with a lover, but there’s a sense of distance to it, when he’s working. Just one step removed. Close enough to hear the hitch in Tony’s breath as he hits the perfect angle, far enough not to care that it’s actually a little uncomfortable. There’s something oddly reassuring about not having to put on a show of enjoying it if he’s not; Tony’s not the sort of sadist who wants his hookers to enjoy it, he knows what he’s paying for, and it’s not to get Clint off.

The smell of new leather is intoxicating, and Clint thinks he might just be a little high on it as he looks up at the stars, bright and steady as he grips the edge of the open moonroof. He arches back and pushes down hard against Tony’s hips, taking him impossibly deep until they both shudder. Ohh, that feels good. He takes a breath, and just looks up at the sky. He’s never noticed it before, but the stars don’t so much twinkle here as just hang, distant and uncaring, in the sky. It feels appropriate, somehow, looking up at that scattering of stars, with Tony’s cock in his ass, and nothing but the slow silence of the canyon. 

A police cruiser rounds the bend, and his heart leaps into his throat as it slows, imagining the headlines if this sort of thing gets out, but just like Tony said, the cop doesn’t even bother to pause, one glance at the car and they speed back up, heading off down the canyon and into the fog; they’re hunting easier game tonight. 

Tony slides his hand up under Clint’s shirt, tracing his fingers along his ribs, saying, “…you mind?” 

He strips off his shirt, just slowly grinding his hips against Tony’s, giving them both a little time to enjoy it. His cock positively aches. Tony rests his hand in the small of his back, and it’s such a fond, strange thing to do that Clint finds himself leaning close, dipping his head to kiss the man again. Tony groans against his mouth, and near grabs him, gripping the back of his neck, pulling him into a deep kiss, sucking his tongue, biting gently at his lip, licking at his mouth. 

Clint turns his head after a minute, but really only to catch his breath, and Tony nuzzles at his cheek. His mustache is freshly-trimmed, prickly and stiff, and as Tony works down along his jaw, it tickles, makes him shiver, arch and shift, and then Tony’s hand is on his cock, warm and strong, and he threads his fingers through Tony’s hair, rocking into Tony’s grip and back down onto that hard cock, and soon he’s shuddering, moaning softly with every stroke. Tony is really, really good with his hands. 

“Fuck,” he groans, “You gotta stop, I’m gonna come on your shirt.”

Tony just laughs, and drags his thumb across the tip of his cock, making him shudder. He grits his teeth and grinds down against Tony’s hips, absolutely determined not to let Tony completely get the better of him, clenching tight, and for just a moment, Tony’s grip falters, his breath catches in his throat and he arches against him. Clint leans close and licks a wet stripe from the collar of his teeshirt to the edge of his goatee, and Tony gasps, squeezing hard at his cock, hand shaking slightly. 

It’s almost like an argument, the way they tease one another, one or the other occasionally catching his bearings enough to snipe at the other, only to be dragged right back to that edge with nips and bites and sharp, shallow breaths, that by the time Tony finally comes, Clint is too overwrought to even care, he just clenches down and arches against Tony’s cock, taking that last little bit he needs, spilling into Tony’s hand. Tony moans and rocks up against him, a few shuddering, desperate thrusts, giving him what he can, and oh, it’s more than enough to leave them both gasping. 

Clint leans against him, bracing himself against the seatback as he catches his breath, and Tony makes this contented sound, reaching out to stroke the leather armrest. 

“Spend the night,” he says, still a little breathless, “I’ve got a killer guest suite… and maybe in the morning you’ll let me bend you over the hood and fuck you senseless, yeah?”

It’s not exactly romantic, but it doesn’t sound half bad, either. “How could I say no to an offer like that?” Clint laughs, “Anyway, we’ve gotta break in the back seat, too.”

“…oh,” Tony says, sounding ever so slightly surprised, “I hadn’t even thought about that.” He nods, and tries to sound serious, but he’s still too out of breath, “Good point.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, finally starting to come back to himself, “I might have to stay a couple of days, actually. Really get all the kinks out. You don’t mind, do you?”

Tony just laughs, "You're a fucking riot, Barton, and cheap at twice the price." Clint snorts and drops back into the driver’s seat, wriggling back into his jeans. If this is Tony’s idea of cheap, then he’s cheap. He can live with that. Still, he’s got his pride to think of, and he cuts Tony a look, mock-serious, "I told you I'd shoot you out of the sky if you ever called me cheap.” Tony shrugs, buttoning his jeans. ”I can think of worse ways to die.” He gestures, “Take Mulholland straight through. We’ll go back via the freeway.”


End file.
